


Unconventional cut

by Cinnamaldeide



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Biblical References, Conversations, Don’t copy to another site, Haircuts, Hairdresser Hannibal Lecter, M/M, Revised Version, Season/Series 01, Touch-Starved Will Graham, aesthetic included
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21747037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide/pseuds/Cinnamaldeide
Summary: Hannibal owned a fanciful salon in Baltimore and Will called to inquire if he was familiar with hair donation.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 33
Kudos: 163





	Unconventional cut

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Another_lost_one](https://archiveofourown.org/users/another_lost_one) for having beta read this work, which will probably be included in a book I’m planning to publish ❀

There were countless highly qualified hairdressers in Baltimore. Salons specialised in repairing damaged manes, treating scalp infections, arranging convoluted hairstyles for weddings and special occasions.

Less demanding requests, maintenance adjustments or the classic trim and wash, were however daunting tasks, if less memorable. Customers weren’t forgiving with services delivered without the proper solemnity, although there was little grandeur to be found in hair dyeing. No less exigent nor willing to part from their money, despite the satisfying outcome, Hannibal had learned from experience.

The close interaction all too often led to unbecoming confrontations, which in turn resulted in Hannibal’s plump rolodex increasing its already noticeable thickness. Some scarcely educated individuals never visited his fine parlor twice. Discourtesy was, after all, unspeakably ugly to him.

After many years of respectable career, the famed coiffeur could blessedly afford to work only by appointments, carefully selecting his clientele. Associates and coworkers complimented his light touch, said he had a gift with blades and if Hannibal could say so himself, he agreed with the sentiment entirely.

It did feel like practicing on patients had improved his use of the craft tools.

He’d been told his skillful hands were incomparable when yielding comb and scissors, enough that his waiting list seldom presented opportunities for unscheduled clients. He had a strict cancellation policy, to which his regulars stuck religiously, so it came as a surprise when an unknown number with a Virginian prefix appeared on the display of his business phone. He wasn’t expecting a call.

“Salon _ Toison d’or_, Hannibal Lecter speaking.”

“Hello,” a male voice responded, “I wanted to ask if you perform Samson haircuts.” A curt interlude if Hannibal ever heard one.

He briefly consulted his vast mental library, seeking connections that didn’t include purely biblical references. He came up with none. “I have to admit you catch me unprepared,” he said, presuming the man wasn’t referring to a cut that induced a significant loss of strength. “Would you care to enlighten me about the specifics of this cut?”

The subtle sigh on the other end of the line mildly irked Hannibal. “It’s not the cut, it’s what you do with the hair,” the man clarified. “It’s supposed to be about donating hair of a certain length for oncological patients, I was told you might know how the process works.” He sounded disheartened, as if the present call hadn’t been the first he’d made, supposedly with no luck so far.

As a matter of fact, Hannibal did know some non-profit associations specialised in crafting wigs destined to young girls who suffered hair loss as a result of cancer treatments.  _ Very well_, Hannibal thought, pleasantly surprised to learn the promotional campaigns hadn’t gone entirely wasted.

“I happen to know the basic principles, but I shall inform myself further on the matter, we could arrange an appointment,” he quickly perused his mental agenda, “perhaps Friday, Mr—”

“Graham,” the man hastened to fill in, tone betraying a certain wonder, “Friday afternoon would be good for me, I get off of work at five.” He sounded a bit lost.

“That would do perfectly, Mr Graham.” Serendipitous that Froideveaux had cancelled his regular appointment. Still, Hannibal preferred to maintain his hard-earned standards. “May I ask who recommended my services?”

“Alana Bloom did,” he was answered, before the call terminated abruptly.

He frowned deeply, looking a bit lost at his phone himself.

•

Although Hannibal had doubted his past apprentice willingly subjected to the presence of impolite individuals if her case could be helped, the renowned hairdresser ascertained there was in fact an acquaintance between his possible client and Alana.

Hannibal had mentored her during her residency at Johns Hopkins, when he still practiced surgery inside a sterile operating room. After he’d killed one too many patient, young, understanding Alana, with her fresh degree in psychiatry, wholeheartedly supported his decision for a superlative business change. She even proposed to practice on her hair if required, which Hannibal had appreciated, but politely declined.

He had considered to pursue a psychiatric career and become her peer in kind, but ultimately decided against an unbearably sedentary routine pervaded with ill-mannered lunatics.

He didn’t anticipate he would encounter his fair share of those in this line of work as well, Mr Graham was just the latest on a long list of bemusing customers.

“And how, pray tell, did you two meet?” Hannibal questioned Alana during her next visit for a little trim. She knew when to come without an appointment. “You never spoke about him,” he added, conversational, shampooing her long hair with delicate, circular moves.

“Probably because I just want everybody to leave him alone,” she answered with a wistful tone. “It's not even about Will,” she said, before a subtle moan threatened to escape her. She composed herself quickly. 

_ A colleague then_, Hannibal gathered. Perhaps more, if she bothered discussing haircuts with him.

“I’ve been observing him while I guest-lecture at the Academy, but I avoid remaining in a room alone with him.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I want to be his friend,” she said, shoulders tightening under Hannibal’s attentive eyes, “and I am.”

There might have been more than Alana was letting on him. A kind of affection that lingered in her voice, a fierce protectiveness in her intent gaze. Even just talking about their connection managed to prevent Hannibal’s attempt at turning her haircut into a pleasurable, relaxing experience. He acquiesced to her palpable desire to change subject for the moment, despite his curiosity, and concentrated instead on lavishing her scalp in conditioner and warm water.

•

As Hannibal ascertained through several phone calls and pointed questions, devolving hair wasn’t a complicated affair, although certain criteria required to be satisfied. Virgin hair of a certain length, never chemically treated nor otherwise ruined, was rather uncommon to stumble upon nowadays.

Hannibal wondered if Will Graham, as Alana had addressed him, was the kind of man that defied social convention and grew his hair to twelve inches for a noble purpose, or simply delayed personal grooming until the state of neglect couldn’t possibly be ignored any longer and conveniently took advantage of a pro bono cut masqueraded as a charitable gesture.

Whether the whole ordeal would reveal itself a waste of time, or presented in fact an opportunity to make a valid acquaintance.

Hannibal got his queries answered Friday afternoon, when the beautiful interpretation of Vivaldi’s  _ Ah, ch’infelice sempre_ brightening in his salon was suddenly interrupted by the cheerful chime that announced the arrival of his intended client, and an unexpected olfactive assault overcame his sensitive nose.

He was in the process of preparing coffee for himself and his last appointment of the week, but the espresso machine had yet to spread the fortifying aroma through his dim-lighted workplace. He closed his eyes in discomfort.

It took him a moment to recognize the scent permeating the air as a combination of organic odours. Dog fur, multiple coats if his senses didn’t fail him, which was almost unheard of. Dead leaves, perhaps damp from rain. Perspiration, a mingle of fatigue and restlessness. The familiar smell of decay underneath.

Its source, a man of average height wearing a singularly unsightly hat, remained motionless beside the threshold, seemingly undecided about his welcome. He contemplated Hannibal’s parlor, took in the leather chairs, wooden furniture and honed hairdressing tools with a nervous look.

He appeared to be on the fence of turning and fleeing, not comfortable enough to remove his jacket and headwear. Hannibal couldn’t assess the length of his hair, merely the state of his unshorn beard.

“Never entered a barber shop to a harpsichord performance,” the man admitted in an soft tone. It was painfully evident that he found the place intimidating.

“Remarkable ear,” Hannibal replied mildly. “Not everyone would have distinguished it from a piano execution. Mr Graham, I presume,” he said, extending a hand in a silent invite to part his guest from his garments.

It felt like coaxing a skittish unkempt animal.

“That’s me. Hope I’m not late, I really need a clean cut,” he said, complying with Hannibal’s request, releasing an impressive amount of long, tangled locks from their cage of worn fabric. A messy crop that far exceeded the required twelve inches in length.

Hannibal smiled at the sight. “You’re just in time.”

•

According to the standard procedure, if the donor’s hair were deemed compatible with the donation, the hairdresser ought to wash it with a gentle shampoo, dry it thoroughly, divide it into four sections and braid it. The resulting four braids would be cut and enveloped in four individual bags to be subsequently collected by a dedicated transport service. Demonstrative evidence shall be gathered in the process to ensure the authenticity of the whole ordeal, Will Graham mentioned, and therefore he granted permission to take pictures before, during and after the cut, as long as his face wasn’t included.

Will Graham had done his research, as Hannibal had complied with his own. In fact, the man seemed more invested in  _ talking _about the cut than actually sitting on one of the low salon chairs and letting Hannibal perform it.

His reluctance was palpable, he radiated it through his avoidant eyes and tense movements, but it wasn’t unheard of in Hannibal’s line of work to address customers entirely blasé about allowing someone else in their personal space. Some hesitated, found it almost intimate.

But Hannibal endeavoured to turn his every performance into an indulgent event, however reticent his client, so he gave Will Graham his time to stall at his leisure, before inviting him to take place and covering his shoulders with a warm towel.

“I’d advise to remove your glasses,” he said. “Leave the first button of your shirt undone, your collar might wrinkle otherwise.” Subsequently, he retreated to pick a cape. When he spread it to cover the rest of him and silence still followed Hannibal’s remark, he donned latex gloves and got to work.

He adjusted the water temperature against his wrist, then turned the spray towards the tangled curls. They flattened immediately under the water pressure, leaving a carpet of wet strands in their place, which Hannibal drowned unapologetically.

There was a considerable amount of them, a rare sight on a male scalp.

“I’m given to understand you and Alana Bloom share a personal relationship,” Hannibal ventured, when the man visibly sagged his shoulders.

Will Graham just mumbled in assent, eyes closed and eyebrows distended.

“She’s a rather private woman,” Hannibal continued. “It is unusual for her to volunteer my contact to an acquaintance, it has seldom occurred in the many years we’ve known each other.” He reached for a previously selected non-aggressive shampoo, massaged a good portion with steady hands on the thick mane. “She must be fond of you.”

“Then again, it has never occurred to me that a client requested his hair to be conserved and devolved to a charity,” Hannibal confided.

“Says something about the population in Baltimore,” Will replied. “Or about your shop, I guess.”

Hannibal’s hand briefly tightened on his hair. Will didn’t complain, but a sharp intake left his lips in surprise.

“Beg pardon. Knots,” Hannibal explained.

The man looked up. “Of course.”

After the hair had been washed clean, Hannibal began painstakingly untangling it with a soft brush. It took him the better part of twenty minutes, but the result was a neat cascade of wavy, almost dry filaments, many of which unfortunately stuck in Hannibal’s brush.

“I didn’t realise my situation was verging on unacceptable,” Will Graham said, idly gesturing towards his head. “Partly my job to blame, partly my negligence, I just didn’t notice my hair was past  _ fashionably daring_ and into  _ homeless guy_ territory until Alana pulled a stray one from my jacket with a carefully blank face.”

Hannibal smiled privately. It must have been impressively long.

“It was kind of her not to comment, but I’m,” he hesitated, “uncomfortably good at reading people, and I value her friendship, wouldn’t want to lose it over my scruffiness,” he added with a sigh, “which actually says something about  _ me_.”

Hannibal seized the opportunity to chime in, between one light stroke with a dry cloth and another. “I know Alana wouldn’t be that easily chased away.” He paused. “She has brothers.”

That elicited a genuine laugh from his client. “She also deserves not to be ashamed of her associates whenever possible,” Will responded.

“Indeed,” Hannibal couldn’t refrain from agreeing.

The comment predictably led to awkward stillness. Hannibal swiftly interrupted it escorting his client towards a blow-dryer station, hair still wet but not dripping anymore.

The creaking of the chair under Will’s weight, their respective reflections in the wide decorated mirror, the silence associated to the approaching closing time. Hannibal enjoyed the comfortable quiet, combing one last time after his damp gloves were discarded, and the shivers running down Will’s back clued the hairdresser about a certain mutual appreciation.

Hannibal wondered if the man had his hair stroked and caressed while it grew. Judging by his gradual relaxation, Hannibal assumed not often enough.

He proceeded blowing the curls with a diffuser into their natural form, running light fingers on Will’s scalp, until the moisture was a mere suggestion on his fingertips. He laboriously separated them in four sections, then began the slow, meticulous braiding. He was tempted to perform a variation from the simple three strand braid, but doubted his efforts would meet his client’s approval.

Hannibal could tell Will Graham wasn’t a man accustomed to small talks, as well as elaborate displays, but he couldn’t resist. “Was it Alana that suggested you to partake in this Samson project?”

“I heard about it some time ago, just had to investigate a bit,” Will answered. “Came up with a list of hairdressers, called  _ Freddies Locks And Whiskers_ and  _ At Du Maurier’s_ before I got to yours.” He tilted his head, following Hannibal’s directing hand. “My mistake, should have started with the biblically themed name, I would’ve saved myself arcane advices on how to repair my cutis,” he bitterly declared.

Hannibal thought about his colleagues, imagined Bedelia turning her nose at the mention of a charity organisation, Chilton proclaiming with a mocking tone his unfamiliarity with the unconventional cut at question. Offering unsolicited suggestions for the sake of masquerading his lack of knowledge about the actual request. Will’s despondent tone, when Hannibal picked up his call, made sense.

“Greek myths and Old Testament scriptures, it all comes from the same place,” Hannibal cheerfully interjected, fastening each braid with a small elastic on both ends, nimble fingers working smoothly. “Do you speak French, Mr Graham?”

“Some. And Will’s fine,” he answered. “I had to google the name of your shop, though. No chance I’d have caught the reference on my own otherwise.”

Hannibal picked up the scissors. “And what do you think of it, may I ask?”

They eyes met briefly through the glass.

“I found it curious,” the man confessed, before Hannibal started cutting.

Neither mentioned they neglected to take pictures beforehand.

•

Will Graham put his hand on his pocket, as if to extract his wallet.

“That won’t be necessary,” Hannibal stopped him. “This is a charity we’re both performing.”

The man frowned deeply at that.

“You offer your hair, I offer my service,” he clarified with an amicable smile.

It was dark outside by the time Hannibal managed to wash Will’s hair again, adding some products to give it shine and volume, and style it into a fashionable cut, before drying. By then, Will had become partial to Hannibal’s touch, as the hairdresser did arranging his bouncy curls and confronting his clever mind. His sharp tongue had proved rather entertaining during the sitting.

“I hope we meet again,” Hannibal said with candour, holding Will’s hair in a plastic bag to be sealed. He took a moment to appreciate the sight of his beautiful lines, surrounded by neat locks and a trimmed beard.

Will had indulged him.

“Thank you for your time and, uhm,” he faltered, lowered his eyes, “for the support, I guess. You really went above and beyond with this, but I don’t think we will.”

The certainty in his voice caught Hannibal unprepared. “Why is that?”

“You named your parlor after the fleece of a fabled  _ ram_, however fanciful or high-sounding. Can’t help but assume there’s an underlying connection between clients and sheep in your thinking,” Will stated.

Hannibal remained very still. He hadn’t liked the jab, but Will’s words held some truth. It did say something about himself and his unique way of addressing his clientele, perhaps the rest of humankind in general.

They didn’t bid each other good evening, rather let a pregnant silence linger, unhurried, until the cheerful chime of Hannibal’s shop announced Will’s eventual departure.

•

“Mr Graham, pardon my forwardness,” Hannibal said to Will’s voicemail a week after their first meeting. “I’m calling on behalf of the organisation to which your hair has been devolved, I’ve been asked to provide your address, as well as your email, so you’ll be informed about the destination of your hair, if you’re amenable to disclose such information.”

No need to mention one of the two would have been sufficient, Hannibal mused, while contemplating the portrait of his own making with Will as subject. Hannibal hadn’t quite captured his penetrating gaze, he ached to see him again to freshen his memory before attempting anew.

In his representation, long, dark hair intertwined with a crown of antlers.

“I hope this message finds you well and that your opinion has changed since our last conversation.” In the past days, Hannibal had been envisioning several scenarios to enact a plausible  _ fortuitous coincidence_ to encounter the man, in case his reticence hadn’t subsided. “Farewell, Will.”

Hannibal could admit to himself Will Graham intrigued him fervently, more than a casual acquaintance ever had. He had kept one of his locks for himself, pocketed in a protective bag for his own pleasure, thinking about medieval traditions and smitten damsels gifting hair to their beloveds. Were the man to ever revert into a danger for Hannibal’s extra-curricular activities, planting evidence wouldn’t be a problem, he told himself.

**Author's Note:**

> If you’ve read so far, you already know more than I did when I had my donation cut :>  
> I wasn’t kidding about the book. Let me know if you’re interested, or if you spot errors I should fix.  
> [Find me elsewhere](https://cinnamaldeide.carrd.co/). [Post on Twitter](https://twitter.com/Cinnamaldeide/status/1204521279275126785?s=20).


End file.
